Hey can you tell me what this poem means?

Agoraphobia

By Linda Pastan

Imagine waking to a scene of snow so new not even memories of other snow can mar its silken surface. What other innocence is quite like this, and who can blame me for refusing to violate such whiteness with the booted cruelty of tracks?

Though I cannot leave this house, I have memorized the view from every window— 23 framed landscapes, containing each nuance of weather and light. And I know the measure of every room, not as a prisoner pacing a cell but as the embryo knows the walls of the womb, free to swim as its body tells it, to nudge the softly fleshed walls, dreading only the moment of contraction when it will be forced into the gaudy world.

Sometimes I travel as far as the last stone of the path, but every step, as in the children’s story, pricks that tender place on the bottom of the foot, and like an ebbing tide with all the obsession of the moon behind it, I am dragged back.

I have noticed in windy fall how leaves are torn from the trees, each leaf waving goodbye to the oak or the poplar that housed it; how the moon, pinned to the very center of the window, is like a moth wanting only to break in. What I mean is this house follows all the laws of lintel and ridgepole, obeys the commandments of broom and of needle, custom and grace. It is not fear that holds me here but passion and the uncrossable moat of moonlight outside the bolted doors.